On Ludgate Hill, waiting for the soldiers and guncarriage to pass, we could not see Samantha Cameron's blouse.

Mercifully, perhaps, given local agreement that the first woman prime minister deserved her ceremonial, this section of a muted, undemonstrative crowd was bereft of tweeters who could have told us where the real action was, on the Sam Cam hashtag, where an awed nation considered the tastefulness of parody funeral wear.

In fact it took a couple of hours at the barrier to figure out that this technological deficit was the most unusual aspect of an already atypical London crowd.

Early on, spectators had looked strikingly similar in age (50ish?), ethnicity (overwhelmingly white), and conduct (utterly restrained), to an interval crowd of Alan Bennett-lovers at the National Theatre. Some, incredibly, brought actual newspapers to pass the time.

But, strangest of all, their phones only came out when the military arrived, and then only for photographs. It was like being in the quiet coach. Before long, if they don't already, pictures of this text-free, tweetless audience will probably look as curious as old shots featuring our ancestors in dark suits and vintage caps.

With the triumph of Mrs Cameron's outfit, it became obvious that her achievement, in transforming a great funeral into something more fash forward, would promptly be added to the list of arguments why simply being one of the most successful British women in political history does not justify anyone a costly Churchillian send off.

If you buy this line of argument, then because Thatcher only promoted one woman, and a rightwing one at that, it is irrelevant that she stopped people asking, ever again, if a woman could be prime minister (though she could not, admittedly, as Russell Brand demonstrated, prevent them worrying who'd look after the kiddies).

What does it signify, that she triumphed in an overwhelmingly hostile, male establishment, when people are talking about another woman's outfit?

Supposing, however, you still consider the arrival of Britain's first woman prime minister a significant achievement, then the excitement over Samantha Cameron's and Amanda Thatcher's appearance, (the latter's Penguin book on entertaining should be available for pre-order soon) merely confirms that Lady Thatcher's ceremonial funeral was a necessary as well as deserved corrective.

In the festival of misogyny which followed the death of "that woman", supporters and detractors of all classes have studied how best to reduce her to a package of pathetic absurdities, from her funny walk and noisy-sounding, yet sexy tights (Jon Snow) and her irrepressible flirting (all male colleagues), to her adorable wrists, ankles etc (John Gummer et al) and her handbaggings, affected voice, Caligula mouth, and comical larderful of grot (allowable liberal snark).

Maybe it is wrong to think there are page three girls who can only dream of Thatcherlike heights of objectification. Maybe, when "the lawyer's son" Tony Blair, departs this world, tributes will also focus insultingly on his Caligula eyes and Marilyn Monroe manboobs. But, frankly, since we need not enlist him as the vanquisher of massive establishment misandry, who cares?

Had it not been for her obsequies watched by people who had never been mercilessly flirted with, or thrilled to the seductive nylonic whisper of a Thatcher leg-crossing, then reduction of this politician to a sort of comical one-off might have been more or less the last word on Thatcher before history signed her off.

As it was, lavish honours which initially looked over the top seemed to restore some of the dignity which, had she been a man, might never have been so begrudged. Watching it, next to spectators who also wanted to honour the woman, before her policies, it was possible to see a time when other symbols might seem more significant than Thatcher's handbag or Sam Cam's blouse, just as the military bands and applause drowned out the earlier perving about the prime minister's legs and sniggering over her ready meals. Although the Marxism endemic in their profession has been exposed on the highest authority, my neighbours on both sides were retired teachers, applauding their alleged nemesis. "I understand the loneliness of her position, and how hard she had to work," said the former head-teacher, a woman. "She broke the glass ceiling".

True, there are less controversial ways of spending millions: royal weddings, jubilees and funerals, cause relatively little resentment, even though they offer negligible inspiration to large-bottomed female commoners and limited scope, unlike the divisive Mrs T, for eye-catching protest. For Thatcher-sceptics, as well as her fans, Mrs Thatcher's undeserved gun-carriage offered glorious opportunities for snubbing feistiness, along the lines of Sally Bercow, dismissing social conventions with the challenge: "Last time I looked this was the 21st century!"

Maybe, as the funeral demographic suggests, to appreciate what Thatcher did to challenge the sexual conventions of the 20th, you had to be there, in the seventies, having your ankles inspected. To paraphrase Thatcher: you can never forget, and you're quite unlikely to forgive.